FLATI RON BUILDING — NOVEMBER 6TH, 2024 — 1;46 A.M.

The basement smelt of damp concrete, gun oil, and blood; the sort of place where confessions came cheap and screams were currency.

A single bulb swung lazily from the ceiling, casting crooked shadows across the room.

In the middle of it sat Homelander — the great bloody god of America — now reduced to a restrained, trembling figure, slumped in a reinforced chair inside of a cage. His wrists were bound with steel and Compound V-dampening restraints, his eyes covered, and his mouth gagged.

Butcher stood a few feet away, arms folded, trench coat hanging heavy from his shoulders. He was smiling; not that wide, mocking grin he wore when he was bluffing, but a quieter, more dangerous one. The kind that meant the game was finally his.

He took his time circling the cage, boots echoing off the walls, the rhythm sharp and deliberate.

“’Bout bloody time, 'innit?” he said at last, voice low and gravel-edged. He leaned close, so near that Homelander could feel the heat of his breath through the gag. “Years of chasin’ your cape around, watchin’ you strut about like some messiah while the rest of us cleaned up your mess. And now look at you. Not so high and mighty now, eh?” Butcher chuckled softly; not from joy, but from the raw satisfaction of inevitability.

He straightened, glancing toward the others; Hughie watching nervously from the corner, Frenchie fidgeting with a syringe, and Kimiko as silent as ever.

“Don’t get too comfy, sunshine,” Butcher murmured, turning back to the captive. “We ain’t even started yet. Got a lotta questions, see. And for once, you’re gonna give us the bloody answers.”

The light swayed again, slicing across Butcher’s face, half in shadow, half in firelight. His smirk faded into something colder. It wasn’t just victory he felt standing there. It was something deeper, darker; the kind of satisfaction that never lasted long before it started to rot.